Captain Quint Shark Hunter
by Daisy Wicker
Summary: This is the first in a series of projected stories about Captain Quint recast as a comic book hero. This is his origin story and is called 'Hell in the Pacific'. The original character was created by Peter Benchley in his novel Jaws.
1. Chapter 1 Infamy

Chapter One: Infamy

Abel Quint, seventeen years of age, sat on a scuffed yellow barrel at the end of the harbor pier, his collar turned up against the wind. Snow swirled in the air. The prints of his seaman's boots along the boardwalk had already been obliterated by the fresh fall. But Abel didn't mind the cold. He preferred the tang of salt in his lungs to the oppressive atmosphere of his parents' home with the threat of an argument always in the air and the pervasive stink of his father's drinking. The winters were the worst – Amity was a summer town, and summer was when the work was good. Abel was a deck hand on the _Marlin_,a thirty foot fishing boat chartered by the rich city folk who holidayed on the island. After Labour Day, Abel got laid off, and through the autumn and the winter worked a series of jobs – washing dishes, gutting mackerel, flaying sharks, – anything that kept him off welfare. He didn't want any hand-outs. He was going to make his own way in the world. His father laughed at him. What had he got that was so special? He was just a dumb-ass kid, who had left school barely able to read and write. What was he going to do with his life? And then his father took another pull on the bottle and turned his cruelty on his wife. Abel would leave the house, banging the door shut. Whenever one of his black moods came on him, he would run down to the sea, and simply by looking out at the vast Atlantic his nerves would settle.

In his hands he held a length of rope which he absently turned and coiled into a series of knots. He remembered his grandfather teaching him, patiently guiding him through the movements. _The little brown eel comes out of the cave, swims into the hole, comes out of the hole, and goes back into the cave again. _They would sit out on the dock together, boy and man, as the sun went down, and he would listen to tales of the Great War and of the ships running the gauntlet of German submarines. His grandfather had died five years ago round about the time his mother had taken to religion.

Sundays were the worst. As usual his mother had come back from church and started in on his father,who was already half drunk. Abel tried to shut out the shrill cries of scripture and the harsh curse words coming from downstairs. He grabbed his jacket and left by the kitchen door. He made his way down to the harbor, drawn by the cry of the gulls. Abel walked to the end of the dock and looked towards the horizon. The water was gray and marbled like a tomb.

After an hour of sitting there, knotting and unknotting a frayed length of rope, he began to regret leaving the house without eating. There was no point going home because there would be no food on the table, only his mother sobbing upstairs in the bedroom and his father slumped in a chair, an empty bottle slipping from his loosening grip as he drifted into a drunken sleep. If he walked into town, he could go by the diner on Franklin. He checked his pockets for loose change and trawled up eighty nine cents, enough for a sandwich and a soda. Abel took one last look out at the ocean and with a fisherman's eye noticed the dark mass of cloud gathering on the horizon: a storm was coming.

He walked back along the dock. As he passed the harbormaster's hut, he noticed a small red glow coming from behind the unwashed panes - Frank Silva enjoying some solitude and a pipe of tobacco. He walked along the front and turned into Main Street. As he walked up the hill he heard the sound of running footsteps behind him. He turned just as a man ran past him. He then saw another man running in the same direction, and another, and a group of three together. They all seemed to be converging on one place: the town hall. Abel picked up his own pace and followed. Up ahead he could see there was already a crowd on the steps of the white clapboard building. He reached the edge of the crowd.

'What's going on?' Abel asked the man closest to him.

'You ain't heard?' The man said and then turned away, calling to a friend.

Abel elbowed his way through the crowd and pressed his way inside. The main entrance – which was nothing much more than a corridor that led to the various civic offices – was full of people shouting. One man – dressed for church in a sober suit and tie – was trying to bring some kind of order to the proceedings by standing on a chair and attempting to address the crowd. Abel recognised him as Robert Vaughn, Amity's mayor and the father of a kid named Larry who had been a year behind him in high school, and had made a name for himself in the debating team. His dad had the same gift of the gab, and some people said that maybe he should run for governor.

The mayor raised his voice to be heard and the noise from the crowd finally subsided.

'Let's go back to the council chambers where we'll have more room. Have the women wait outside.'

Vaughn led the way down the corridor with the crowd pressing at his back. Abel followed and managed to slip inside the room just as they were closing the door. Vaughn and several of the selectmen had taken up position around the curved council table and the mayor was banging his gavel to call the room to order. With each strike of the gavel, the tiny decorative flags set on the table top jumped.

'Please, let's have some order. Let's have some order.'

The hubbub died down.

'Thank , you all know why we're here.' Immediately the men started talking again and the mayor struck the table with his gavel. 'Alright, gentlemen, please. I know feelings are running high - '

'Damn right they are,' someone called from the back of the room.

Abel could feel the growing anger in the room and he could see it on the faces of the men. He bent towards the man seated nearest him and whispered,

'Hey, mister, what's going on?'

The man turned and gave him a look of disbelief.

'Kid, you don't know? The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. You take a good look at that date there.' Here he nodded to a calendar on the wall. 'Remember that date, son. That was the date America went to war.'

It was Sunday, 7th December 1941.


	2. Chapter 2 Leaving Home

Chapter Two: Leaving Home

Abel woke early Monday morning. Outside it was still dark. He lay in his bed, his hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He had made his decision even before the meeting in the council chambers had broken up. Some men had formed a line to sign up, putting their names down on a makeshift list. Abel joined the end of the line and shuffled forward. When he picked up the pen to make his mark, a voice he remembered from high school spoke his name.

'Abel Quint.'

Abel looked up into the eyes of Principal Adams. Throughout his high school career Abel had been the bane of this man's life, cutting classes, talking back to teachers,scratching obscene words into the desk tops.

'Son, you're too young. You're barely seventeen.' The principal's flinty eyes softened. 'We all want to do our bit. I understand that, but the forces need men, not boys. You stay here on the island, look after the women. This thing'll all be over in a year.'

Abel gritted his teeth. The man behind him asked what was holding up the line. Abel tossed the pen onto the open book and pushed his way outside, his face stinging with shame.

At home he found his parents subdued. His father sat cursing the Japanese under his breath, punctuating his speech with bombastic avowals of revenge. His mother sat with a Bible on her lap, whispering scripture. They ate an evening meal together, but hardly spoke. Abel went to his room and started to pack a canvas tote bag. Then he stood for a long while at the half-open window, breathing in the sea air and listening to the sound of the ocean. He lay down on the bed, not bothering to get undressed and fell into a troubled sleep.

As the light finally began to filter into the room, he sat up. He took one last look at the cockpit of his childhood: the baseball pennants stuck to the wall, the model ships, the meagre shelf of books that included Melville and London, a photograph of his grandfather in uniform. Well, that part of his life was now over. Downstairs in the kitchen he could hear his mother moving about, preparing breakfast, and the smell of eggs and bacon wafted up the stairs.

Abel had thought about sneaking out before his parents were awake, but he felt he owed them at least a final goodbye. He lifted his tote bag – surprisingly light – and went downstairs. His father was hunkered down by the radio in the living room. He looked at his son and lowered his head.

'The President is going to speak,' he said. 'We're going to war, Abel.'

'I know, Pop.'

Abel had not spoken to his father in such a tone for a long time. Both were embarrassed by the intimacy of the moment, but then Abel's mother came into the room, and when she saw the tote bag, her face collapsed and she began to cry.

At the same moment the radio came to life and a voice spoke out.

'Yesterday, December 7th 1941 – a date which will live in infamy – the United States of America was suddenly attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.'

Mother, father and son all stood in a tableau and stared at the glowing dial of the radio set. The voice, deep and purposeful, spoke on.

'The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. Very many American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu. As commander in chief of the Army and Navy, I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense. Always will we remember the character of the onslaught against us. No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory.'

Abel lifted his tote bag onto his shoulder. His mother stepped forward and put a hand out to him.

'You'll have some breakfast before you go?'

Abel took the hand in his.

'Sure. Scrambled eggs, bacon, smells good.'

They sat down together at the kitchen table and ate their last family meal as the voice of the President intoned from the other room. Abel wiped his plate clean with a heel of bread, drained a glass of milk and pushed back his chair. It scraped on the linoleum floor with a jarring sound.

As Abel walked to the front door the President's speech came to an end and the voice of Licia Albanese launched into a rendition of 'The Star Spangled Banner'. The high pure voice of the soprano seemed to follow Abel as he crossed the porch, went down the steps and strode across the yard.

_O! say can you see by the dawn's early light,  
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming,  
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,  
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?  
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,  
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;  
O! say does that star-spangled banner yet wave,  
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?_

Abel knew that his parents were standing there in the doorway watching him leave, but he did not turn back. He hoisted the tote bag onto his shoulder and marched purposefully down to the sea.


	3. Chapter 3 The Prophet

Chapter Three: The Prophet

Abel caught the eleven o'clock ferry to the mainland. It was cold, but a fair day. Overnight the storm had blown itself out and brought clear weather in its wake. The sea was calm and the sky was a vault of blue. Abel stood in the stern and lent against the taffrail, keeping his eyes fixed on the harbor as the ship slipped its moorings and moved out into the open water. In all of his seventeen years he had never been to the mainland. This was not an usual state of affairs. Amity islanders - like other communities on nearby Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard – preferred to keep to themselves. They suffered the summer visitors that descended on them for a few months of the year because they brought dollars with them ('summer dollars' the locals called them), but they secretly viewed them as trespassers. Occasionally one of these off-islanders would chose to buy some property and settle down, but they were never made truly welcome. You couldn't become an islander simply by moving there. It was a birth right and it was in the blood.

Abel felt no great sorrow in departing because he knew that one day he would return. He would make his way in the world and come back to a hero's welcome. He would buy a boat of his own and make a living from the sea. But all that was in the future. Now duty called. It was like the President had said, there was a righteous might and it was going to deliver a knockout punch to the goddam Empire of Japan.

All around him conversations pursued only one theme. The women spoke softly, aghast at the details that were emerging of the attack, mourning the deaths of the sailors as if they were their own sons. The men spoke with bravado. Some even laughed as they thought about the retaliation that would come and which they would be a part of. Their wives looked at them nervously, but said nothing. As the sea breeze sharpened most of the passengers drifted below.

Abel preferred to stay on the upper deck and when he tired of looking at the ocean, he picked up a newspaper that someone had discarded on a bench. Its pages fluttered in the breeze as he held it in his hands. There was a picture of the President on the front page signing the declaration of war. The banner headline read: U.S DECLARES WAR, PACIFIC BATTLE WIDENS; MANILLA AREA BOMBED; 1,500 DEAD IN HAWAII; HOSTILE PLANES SIGHTED AT SAN FRANCISCO.

Abel stared at the words and tried to imagine the scene: the planes flying into the rising sun, the screaming bombs finding their targets, the orange flames and the black oily smoke, men woken from their beds by the sound of gunfire, the strafing bullets, the noise and confusion, the fear and the desperation. More than one and a half thousand dead. His fists clenched.

'Excuse me, son.' A voice broke in on Abel's thoughts and he turned to see an elderly man seated next to him. 'Might I borrow your newspaper when you've done with it?'

'It ain't mine,' Abel said. 'Here, take it.'

'Terrible business, this,' the man said, indicating the front page with a nod of his head.

Abel grunted.

'You going to sign up?' The man asked.

'Yeah. Navy. I'm going to get posted to the Pacific.'

'You an islander?'

'Yeah, I'm an islander.'

'So you know boats.'

'Yeah, I know boats.'

'Well, son, let me tell you, you may know boats and you may know the sea. Leastways, you know the fishing grounds round here. But, you don't know the Pacific. That's a different kind of ocean. Like no waters I've ever known, and I've seen 'em all.'

'An ocean's an ocean,' Abel said. 'Water's the same wherever you go.'

'Well, now, son, you know, that's not strictly true. You ever hear of the Sargasso Sea, or the Kuroshio Current, or the Saltstraumen Maelstrom? The oceans are full of mystery, and danger. And the Pacific? Like I said,that's the strangest of them all.'

Abel gave a shrug.

'Now I can tell you don't believe me, son,' the old man smiled. 'Well, let me tell you a story, and then maybe you'll think different. Back in the Nineties – I'm talking almost fifty years ago – when I was about your age I had a hankering to see the watery part of the world. I started out working as a deck hand on those big Atlantic liners. New York to Southampton. Then I had a spell in the Mediterranean on pleasure boats. But it was all too tame for me. I wanted adventure. I guess that's what you're looking for, too. So I signed on board with a tramp steamer that carried cargo in the East. The Indian Ocean, and then further east, like I said, to the Pacific. Singapore, Macau, Hong Kong, the Philippines, Japan. I got stories I could tell. Strange worlds, strange times.'

The old man fell silent and then seemed to start muttering to himself under his breath. Abel figured maybe he was drunk, or senile, or just a little crazy. There was a crazy look about him that was for sure. He had thick white hair and his face was etched with wrinkles, and there was a wild glint in his eyes.

'One time – it was the typhoon season – we shipped out of Sumatra headed for Japan. One week out we ran into a storm and we all thought we were headed for Davy Jones. But what happened was we were blown off course and for three days we were adrift, completely lost on the ocean.'

Abel couldn't suppress his curiosity.

'What happened? Your instruments were damaged?'

'You could say that. They just stopped working. No compass readings. No bearings. We couldn't even find north.'

'What about the stars?'

The old man lent forward and whispered.

'There were no stars. The sky was completely black. The sky, you understand, not clouds. The ocean too. It was like everything had been obliterated. The engine wouldn't work. We stripped it down. There was nothing wrong with it. We just drifted. There were strange lights in the sky – green flashes on the horizon and in the water too. Not a breath of wind for three days, and then suddenly a squall, and when we came through it, it was like a curtain had been lifted, and we were back on the natural sea again. The compass started spinning. The engine fired up. It was like we had passed through another world and come out the other side. I tell you, son, the Pacific is a strange place.'

'It sure sounds like it, mister,' said Abel.

The old man grasped his hand. His grip was bony and surprisingly strong.

'Don't go there, son. I'm warning you. It's a bad place. Sign up, for sure. Do your bit for your country. But stay clear of those waters.'

Abel wrested his arm from the old man's grip.

'Mister, you're crazy.'

He stood up and walked away.

'Hear me, Abel Quint!' The old man shouted after him. 'Avoid those dark waters, or go there at your peril!'

Abel froze. It was not the old man's firebrand warning that rooted him to the spot, but the sound of his own name. How did the old man know his name? He spun round to confront him, but was confounded by the sight that met his eyes. The upper deck was empty.


	4. Chapter 4 Nighthawks

Chapter Four: Nighthawks

By the time the ferry docked at Woods Hole, Abel had been through the vessel from bow to stern in search of the old man, but could find no trace of him. As the passengers prepared to disembark, he accosted one of the crew and asked if he had seen a white-haired old man dressed all in black like a preacher.

'Sure, kid,' the sailor said, 'I'm on personal speaking terms with every one.' He raised an arm in mock aggression. 'Get outta here.'

Abel joined the press of people heading for the gangplank. In his mind he tried to reason with his confused thoughts. Was it so strange that he had not been able to find the stranger? Maybe the old fool had deliberately avoided him. And was it so unusual that he knew his name? Amity was a small island. And what about all that crazy talk? Maybe he had long ago been cast adrift on the ocean, burnt by the sun and forced to drink salt water. That would make you crazy, for sure. Abel recalled a poem from school. He couldn't remember the title of it, or the name of the poet, but fragments of the verse that his English teacher Mr Bone had read aloud to the class had stayed with him:

_Day after day, day after day,  
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;  
As idle as a painted ship  
Upon a painted ocean._

_Water, water, every where,_  
_And all the boards did shrink;_  
_Water, water, every where,_  
_Nor any drop to drink._

That had been a poem about a crazy old man with a crazy sea story. Funny how it should come into his mind now. Abel had never been a great reader until he had joined that class. Mr Bone had known how to win his students' attention with tales of adventure and mystery at sea: from Herman Melville to Richard Dana, from Jack London to Stephen Crane, from Robert Louis Stevenson to Rudyard Kipling. By passing off classics of literature as exciting yarns, Mr Bone had managed to get more than one generation of Amity youngsters reading something other than comic books. Abel still felt there was something shameful about admitting to being a book reader – an attitude that might have been beaten into him by his father, who scorned learning with a dullard's hatred. Nevertheless, Abel still kept the faith, and carried in his tote bag a well-thumbed, battered edition of _Moby Dick_.

He was jostled from his thoughts by the urgent movement of people about him. A newsboy on the sidewalk was doing a brisk trade in the latest edition of the morning paper. Abel asked him for directions to the bus station and the boy broke off his cries just long enough to give them. As Abel walked up the hill, the boy's cries of 'War! War! War with Japan!' pursued him.

At the bus station he bought a one way ticket to New York City. He sat on a bench, trying to igmore the hunger that gnawed at his belly. When he could no longer resist the smell of frying onions from the concession stand, he bought a hot dog slathered in relish and ate it in three bites.

When the bus –a huge green and white vehicle with ribbed sides – arrived, Abel took a seat at the back, scrunched his jacket into a pillow, put down his head and closed his eyes. As the bus rolled along Route 95 through New Bedford and Providence and into Connecticut, Abel slept, waking only when the bus driver roused him.

'This is it, son. The end of the line. New York City.'

Rubbing his eyes, Abel stumbled off the bus onto 42nd Street. The sun had gone down, but all about him were towering buildings of light. He had only seen this city in the movies – the one he remembered most from his childhood was that picture about the giant ape that climbed the tallest building and then was shot down by planes.

It was bitterly cold and thick flakes of snow were beginning to fall. Abel walked the streets for an hour before taking refuge in an all night diner, where he ordered a clam chowder with saltine crackers. As a kid he had always loved the salty crisp tang of the crackers on his tongue. Whenever the waitress came by his table he held up his coffee cup for a refill to stop her from asking him to leave, and by three a.m. she had given up caring.

The diner was populated with denizens of the city at night. A man in a dark blue suit and a hat sat at the counter with a redhead in a red dress. The man just stared blankly ahead of him while the woman polished her nails. They sat there for an hour without exchanging a word. Three women with heavily made-up faces came in and sat in a booth, giggling. A down-and-out went round the tables pan-handling until the busboy came from behind the bar and threw him out on the sidewalk, cursing him all the while for messing up his white uniform.

Finally, dawn broke and Abel left. He emptied his bursting bladder up against a fire escape in an alleyway. What he needed to do now was find the nearest recruiting office, and sign up.


	5. Chapter 5 Arise Americans

Chapter Five: Arise Americans

The post office at Church and Vessey had been set up as a recruiting centre and by eight o'clock a line of young men already stretched around the block. Abel joined the back of the line, which slowly moved forward along the sidewalk, up a broad set of steps under an columned archway and finally into the relative warmth of a large marbled vestibule. Picnic tables had been set up with urns of coffee and plates piled with doughnuts, and women volunteers were serving the men who crowded round them, laughing and chatting as if they were at a church social.

Abel gave his name and an address to a bullet-headed sergeant who wrote the details down on a slip of paper and handed it back to him, with instructions to go to the end of the corridor and wait. After ten minutes Abel was admitted into a large room and told to fall in line. There were six ranks of young men standing somewhat self-consciously to attention. Abel made up the end of the final row. Two uniformed men, a man in a white coat and a young woman in a nurse's uniform entered the room.

'Okay, fellahs,' The soldier who spoke had a deep southern accent. 'You know the drill. Strip off.'

A murmur and some nervous chuckles echoed around the room and then, almost reluctantly, one or two of the young men began to take off their jackets, unbutton their shirts and loosen their belts.

'That's right, fellahs.' The sergeant walked between the lines. 'Just drop your clothes on the floor. Don't you worry. It was swept this morning.'

Abel pulled off his vest and stepped out of his shorts to stand naked alongside all the others. Stripped of his clothes, he felt more like a boy than a man. His frame was thin and wiry and only his upper arms showed any sign of pronounced musculature – that had come from his summers working on the fishing boats, reeling in the sailfish, the giant bluefin tuna, and the sharks.

The doctor and nurse were moving down the front line, performing a basic medical check. Occasionally, the doctor would shake his head and the nurse would write out a rejection slip. By the time they came to the end of final row, Abel was feeling the cold of the marble floor in his feet and beginning to shiver.

'What's the matter with you, son?' The doctor asked.

'Nothing, sir.' Abel replied.'I'm one hundred percent fit and healthy.'

'I'll be the judge of that.'

The doctor ran through a list of questions, which Abel answered mostly truthfully.

There were then a series of tests.

Abel couldn't help himself from looking at the nurse who stood behind the doctor with a clipboard. She had a pretty round face and a cute bow of a mouth. Whenever she wrote something down, she would involuntarily bite the lower corner of her bottom lip. His eyes travelled down to her chest, which rose and fell under the crisp white uniform. As he looked, Abel became aware of a growing warm sensation, and felt something beginning to stir. He gritted his teeth and tried to think of other things.

'Well,' said the doctor,'it appears that everything is in working order. Wouldn't you say, nurse?'

The nurse glanced downwards and smiled.

'A1,' said the doctor. 'Fit for duty.'

Thankful the examination was at an end, Abel struggled into his shorts and pulled on his pants.

Once dressed the volunteers were marched out of the room into another waiting area, and then were called in to be interviewed one at a time. Abel was the last. On entering the room his attention was caught by a large recruiting poster on the wall. It showed a picture of a handsome strong-jawed sailor in whites manning a large gun, and below it was the legend:

"ARISE AMERICANS"

Your Country and Your Liberty

are in grave danger ... protect

them now by joining the ...

UNITED STATES NAVY

or the U.S. NAVAL RESERVE

A naval officer sat behind a desk, smoking a pipe. Abel handed over the form he had been asked to fill in and the result of his medical. The officer took them without looking up and cast his eyes over the pages. As he read he sucked on the stem of his pipe and exhaled plumes of tobacco into the already fuggy atmosphere. Abel rocked back on his heels impatiently.

'Stand to attention, mister!' The words came out with a cloud of smoke in a voice barely above a whisper, but they might as well have been cracks of a whip.

Instinctively, Abel straightened his back and stiffened his neck.

The officer resumed reading. A minute passed and then another. Abel remained rooted to the spot. Having got this far, he didn't want to blow his chances.

The officer put the papers on the desk in front of him, squaring the page corners with the edge of the ink blotter.

'So you want to join the United States Navy, Mr Quint?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Fight for your country and your liberty? Just like it says in the poster there?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, it certainly looks like you've got what it takes.'

Abel felt his shoulders relax with relief.

'Extensive experience at sea. Perfect medical record.' The officer took the pipe from his mouth and tapped out the ash from the bowl.

'Yes, sir.' Abel could think of nothing else to say.

The officer turned to the first page of the form.

'You were born on Amity Island – is that correct?'

'Yes, sir. I'm an islander.'

'And you moved to New York City when?'

'Six – six months, ago.' Abel stumbled on his words.

'And this here is your current address? 2340 Broadway?'

'Yes, sir.'

'How old are you,Mr Quint?'

'It says right there on the form, sir.'

'I know what it says, Mr Quint, but I'm asking you.'

'I'm eight- eighteen years old, sir.' Abel felt his last chance slipping away from him, but he wasn't going to give up without a fight.'I'm young, I know it. I've lived on an island all my life. But that island is part of the United States, sir. The United States of America, and I'm an American, and I can't stand by and do nothing. I am willing to protect what I hold dear, sir. I am willing to rise up and defend my country, and I don't think it's the place of any man to try and stop me.'

As soon as he had said the words, Abel felt that he had gone too far. He stiffened his shoulders and held back his head.

The officer took a pouch of tobacco from a drawer and started to tamp down the bowl of his pipe with the thick golden shreds.

'That's a very noble sentiment, Mr Quint. You have a way of speecifying, I can't deny that.'

The officer paused to scratch a flame from a match and light the tobacco. He shook the match with a flick of the wrist and placed its smoking corpse carefully in the centre of the brass ashtray on the desk top. His hand then reached out for a large wooden-handled stamp, which he applied first to a pad of ink and then to Abel's form. He held out the paper and Abel took it. Even upside down, he could read the word APPROVED in green ink at the bottom of the page.

'Give this to the sergeant at arms at the front desk. He'll issue you with your orders.'

'Yes, sir,' said Abel, snapping a salute. 'Thank you, sir.'

As he turned to leave, the officer took the pipe from his mouth.

'I used to live in this city, Mr Quint, and you know I seem to recall that there's an all night diner at 2340 Broadway. But it's been a while. Maybe I'm wrong'

Abel grinned.

'Yes, sir. Maybe you are.'


	6. Chapter 6 The March of Time

Chapter Six: The March of Time

Abel received another set of documents from the sergeant at arms in exchange for the papers he gave him and was told to report to the naval base in Saratoga Springs at zero eight hundred the following day.

'Saratoga Springs?' Abel asked. 'Where's that?'

'Are you cracking wise, kid?' The sergeant glanced over Abel's papers, and then muttered to himself, 'No, I guess not. It's upstate, north of Albany.'

Another recruit pushed forward, and Abel stepped to one side. He tried to get directions from another soldier, but was rebuffed ('What am I? A traffic cop?') and told to move on. He made his way through the crowd of volunteers that was still flowing into the main hall, and stood on the steps. It was snowing hard now and the sidewalks were already white. The traffic was moving at a sluggish pace and horns blared under the impatient fists of cab drivers. Abel walked the streets aimlessly for an hour and then ducked into a deli for lunch. He sat in a window booth and watched the passers-by, a pastrami on rye and a glass of milk on the shiny formica table top in front of him.

Back home in Amity he had sometimes spent idle afternoons in the drugstore on Main Street, nursing a soda and watching the people on the sidewalks. The faces of the islanders – many of them familiar to him - bore the marks of constant exposure to the sun and the wind, and, like the wooden fences that ran along the dunes, they were worn and weathered. Here in New York every face was a stranger's. There were society women with scarlet mouths in fur-collared coats and pill box hats, businessmen in gray worsted suits and gabardine coats, down-and-outs in ill-fitting jackets and baggy pants tied up with string, uniformed policemen carrying billy clubs, labourers in denim overalls and cloth caps,sailors on shore leave following the sashaying secretaries on their way back from a lunch break.

Abel swallowed the final crust of his sandwich, drank down the last of the milk and wiped his upper lip with his sleeve. He made his way back to Broadway, and as the sun set, the Christmas decorations glowed and glittered all around him. He passed a movie theater and on an impulse bought a ticket. Inside, the foyer was like a sultan's palace: there were plaster mouldings of stars on the ceiling and thick curtains of red velvet wrapped around imitation marble columns that flanked a wide crimson carpeted staircase. At the top of the stairs a man in a violet uniform with gold piping inspected Abel's ticket stub and opened the door. Abel stumbled into the dark and groped his way to a seat.

The feature had already started. Across a giant screen flickered images of black and white: some men, their faces hidden in shadow, talking in a room, and then a rainy night outside a nightclub, followed by a winter scene outside a cabin, a large dinner party with dancing girls, a political rally, a scene from an opera, and a crazy bald man walking the long corridors of an old castle. Abel couldn't follow the story at all. He closed his eyes and fell asleep, woken only when a departing couple brushed past him. The matinee was over and the lights had come up, but Abel was reluctant to leave the warmth of the auditorium. He watched more patrons file in for the next show, and finally the lights came down again.

A strident fanfare of trumpets announced the beginning of the newsreel, and a sombre voice spoke over a title card that read BOMBING OF PEARL HARBOR.

'Amongst the archipelago of Hawaii lies the island of Oahu, the base of the United States Pacific Fleet.' A spinning globe wreathed in white vapour faded into a crude map of the islands. Palm trees and sandy beaches, sailors in white uniforms receiving garlands of flowers from grass-skirted natives. 'Hawaii, a paradise on earth, and home to twenty thousand military personnel and their families.' Women playing tennis, children on bicycles, a man in shirt sleeves mowing his front yard. 'A paradise that on the morning of Sunday 7th December became a living hell.' Huge battleships listing in the water, billows of black smoke, planes, strained desperate faces, the walking wounded, women weeping. 'A day that will live in infamy. A cowardly unprovoked attack by a nation greedy for power.' Japanese generals in full regalia with ceremonial swords. Fighter pilots bowing before the flag of the rising sun. Maps of the Pacific with animated arrows showing the lines of attack. 'America now prepares for war. Across the country men and women step forward to do their duty.' Lines outside recuiting offices. A soldier saluting the stars and stripes, which, fluttering in the breeze, slowly fills the entire screen as the words ENLIST TODAY! appear.

There were cheers and whistles from the audience. The newsreel was followed by a Merrie Melodies cartoon and then the feature presentation. Abel stayed for half an hour in the hope that he would be able to make some sense of the picture if he saw it from the beginning, but he finally gave up and left.

As Abel trudged through the snow, the images from the newsreel flashed in his mind, and as he walked his fists tightened and his determination hardened. He was ready to fight.


	7. Chapter 7 Grand Central

Chapter Seven: Grand Central

Abel stood at the top of the steps that led down to the concourse of Grand Central Station and looked about him in amazement. He had read somewhere in a magazine that New York was the city that never slept, and until now he had never really known what that meant. All night diners, neon lights, midnight picture shows, taxi cabs cruising the streets,gaudy women loitering on corners even in the shivering cold, the sounds of jazz music coming from basement clubs and bars, diners glimpsed behind the large plate glass windows of swanky restaurants. In Amity even the stop lights that swung on wires above the intersection on Franklin and Main stopped working after eleven, and by midnight it was like a ghost town. Here in New York life never stopped. It was four o'clock in the morning and the dark night pressed against the station's huge arched windows. The interior was illuminated by a rich yellow light and echoed with the conversations of those milling about on the concourse below. Perhaps it was the time of night, or perhaps it was the vaulted cathedral-like structure that impressed upon them a sense of reverence. Whatever it was, the voices that rose and mingled in the air were hushed and subdued. Occasionally, a cry or a whoop or a holler rang out when a knot of servicemen crossed the marbled floor.

Abel's attention was caught by the sight of a young mother crossing the concourse, wheeling an infant in a baby carriage. She halted at the foot of the steps, put down a battered suitcase, and looked about her. She was dressed all in black and Abel wondered if she was already a widow. How many widows would the coming war make? How many of those men in uniform joshing with each other would fall under enemy fire? Abel dismissed these thoughts from his head. One thing was sure. He was going to get through without a scratch.

The young mother had manoeuvred the baby carriage around and was attempting to haul it up the stairs, one step at a time. With the suitcase to carry, it was an impossible task. The infant, woken by the sudden jolt, began to cry. People walked past, absorbed in their own lives. A fat man in a thick overcoat brushed past the woman as he came down the stairs and glared at her angrily. Abel shook his head and, taking the steps three at a time, raced down the two flights.

'Can I help you with that, ma'am?' He grasped the bar of the carriage and relieved the woman of the burden of her suitcase in a single movement. He started backwards up the steps, pulling the baby carriage after him.

'Oh, thank you,' the woman said. 'You're so kind.'

The baby in the carriage yelled.

'He's got quite a pair of lungs for a little one,' said Abel.

'He's a she,' said the mother with a smile.

'Even better,' said Abel.

They reached the top of the stairs and stood together for a moment in an awkward silence. The woman raised her purse as if she meant to open it. Abel took a step back.

'Thank you,' she said.

'Ma'am,' Abel replied, tipping the brim of his hat.

The young woman stared at him with moist eyes. Her lower lip trembled.

'Are you planning on joining up?' she asked.

'Yes, ma'am.' Abel smiled and puffed his chest out proudly.

The woman stepped forward and touched his wrist.

'I wish you wouldn't,' she said.

Abel frowned.

Her fingers tightened their grasp.

'Don't,' she said. 'Don't.'

And then, suddenly, her eyes rolled back and she collapsed onto the floor.

Abel caught her before she fell and lowered her down.

'Help,' he called out. 'Somebody help.'

Several people came running and a small crowd gathered around the prostrate woman.

'Give her some air.'

'Is there a doctor here?'

'What happened?'

'What's the matter?'

'This man's wife, she just fainted.'

'Mister, has she done this before?'

'She's not my wife,' Abel said.

He backed away. The woman in black seemed to be coming round. Her eyelids fluttered open and her gaze found Abel's.

Her mouth formed the word, _Don't_.

She reached out her hand. Abel turned and ran down the stairs. He felt as if someone had just walked over his grave.


	8. Chapter 8 Boot Camp

Chapter Eight: Boot Camp

The camp at Saratoga Springs occupied several acres of land on the outskirts of the town. Surrounded by barbed wire fence and patrolled by MPs with dogs, it was more like a prison than a naval base. It wasn't even on the ocean. The recruits were housed in mizzen huts, sleeping in bunk beds, forty to a room. They ate at long trestle tables in the canteen, the same food every week: meatloaf on Mondays, stew on Tuesdays, fried chicken on Wednesdays. They spent hours drilling on the parade ground whatever the weather, being humiliated by the staff sergeant, who had the sadism of a true bully. The town was located between the Catskill and the Adirondack mountains, and the bitter wind whipped at their uniforms as they marched, wheeled left and right, halted, and stood for inspection.

From the moment he had reported to the base commander along with another two hundred fresh-faced recruits, Abel felt his identity being slowly stripped away from him. Like everyone else, he was given a buzz cut by the barber. He was sorry to have to lose his moustache and sideburns, which he had been cultivating for the last six months, partly to enrage his father, partly because a girl called Mary Lee had said they gave him a piratical look. He was issued with a uniform and given a number. The days were measured out by regimented routine, starting with reveille at six a.m. and finishing with bunk inspection at eight p.m. In between, every minute of every hour was accounted for: forced marches around the camp perimeter before breakfast, weapons practice, assault course, parades and inspections, instruction on morse code, navigation and basic seamanship.

There were punishments for the smallest infringement of the rules, or the slightest evidence of sloppiness - a scuffed boot, a misaligned crease, a spot of grease. The punishments were harsh and always malicious: blasted with icy water from a fire hose, made to do fifty push-ups in the rain in nothing but your shorts, beaten with bars of soap rolled up in towels, deprived of sleep, shouted at, abused, shamed, and humiliated.

Abel recognised early on that the regime was designed to weed out the weak, and slowly but surely they fell away. Some were transfered to clerical posts, others were sectioned for medical reasons, some simply took off, their strength sapped and their will broken by the machine designed to create fighting men. For those who remained, though, for those who could stay the course, there was a growing sense of shared purpose, and an immutable bond was formed between them.

Abel rose to every challenge. He wore his uniform with pride and carried his weapon – a Garland rifle – with honour. He polished its wooden stock lovingly, oiled the breach, broke it down and reassembled it every evening. He was top of his class in every subject. At first the drill sergeant singled him out and tried to force him into a fault. But Abel could not be bested. Whatever question was barked at him – on parade ground etiquette, radio call signs, or enemy ship identification – he always roared right back with the answer. Whatever task was given to him – tie a sheepshank, disarm the enemy, resuscitate a victim – he performed it swiftly and efficiently.

The sergeant tried to get a rise out of him with mockery and insult. There were times when the sergeant waggled his tongue and said things about Abel's mother that almost made the young man snap. His jaw tightened, the veins on his forehead popped, and his fists clenched at his sides. But he always managed to master his anger, and his eyes took on a cold sneer, which even the drill sergeant could not stare down.

The weeks became months. All the while news of the distant war came from the radio broadcasts. The Japanese had turned their attention to the Philippines. Every Saturday evening the mess hall was converted into a temporary movie theater and before the feature, newsreels were shown: the stoic faces of General MacArthur and Admiral Hart, the lines of retreating American infantrymen, the advance of Japanese tanks cutting a swathe through the jungle landscape. The recruits in the audience cheered and yelled at the news that their countrymen still held the Orion-Bagac line, but as the weeks passed, the sounds turned to whistles and catcalls and finally - at the footage showing the fall of Bataan - silence.

The lights came up and the camp commander flanked by two aides marched down the aisle and took up position front and centre. As one, the recruits rose to their feet and snapped to attention.

The commander felt a slight constriction in his throat as he surveyed the rows of young men before him. How many of them would come back, he wondered? Maybe fifty percent, maybe less. He had seen what war did to a man back in the 1917-18 conflict. He had been a young man himself then, just turned thirty with a pretty wife. Alice, gone now, taken by cancer in thirty four.

'Sir?'

An aide leaned close and whispered.

'The men are ready, sir.'

The commander cleared his throat.

'At ease, men. At ease.'

The recruits let their shoulders relax.

From where Abel stood in the front row, he could see the lines on the commander's face and the soft wattle of skin that trembled under his jaw as he spoke.

'Men, I'd like to read something to you. It's a piece of philosophy, I guess, and when I was a young man going into battle, it gave me a sense of purpose. Maybe it'll help you one day.' The commander took from his pocket a small leather bound book and opened it at a marked page. As he fumbled in his tunic pocket for a pair of half-moon reading glasses, there was a embarrassed shuffling of feet. Without looking down once at the page before him, the commander began to recite in a measured emotional voice.

'When faced with death there is only one choice. Be determined and advance. To say that dying without reaching one's aim in life is to die a dog's death is to misunderstand the purpose of life. When pressed with the choice of life or death, it is not necessary to gain one's aim. We all want to live. But not having attained our aim, and continuing to live is cowardice. Set your heart right every morning and evening, and you will be able to live as though the body were already dead, and so gain freedom. Your whole life will be without blame, and you will succeed in your calling.'

The commander closed the book.

'Those, gentlemen, are the words of a seventeenth century samurai warrior. A Japanese warrior. Make no mistake, the Japanese are a warrior nation, and if you underestimate them, you do so at your peril. Next week, you're going to be shipping out. You're going to see combat and you're going to meet the enemy face to face Some of you will not return. Your country asks the greatest sacrifice of you, and if that moment comes, as to some of you it surely will, remember those words: _Be determined and advance_.'

There was an uncomfortable silence until an aide lent forward and whispered something into the commander's ear.

'That is all, men.' The commander raised his hand in a trembling salute. 'God bless you all, and God bless America.'

The assembled company came sharply to attention and returned the salute. Only when the commander had left the room did the men break the silence.

'Jesus H. Christ,' Abel's neighbour said. 'What the hell kind of speech was that?'

'The old man's lost it,' said another.

'You said it,' said a third. 'Section Eight.'

'You think the guy actually admires the Japs?' asked a fourth.

Eventually, the lights came down and the movie projector at the back of the room whirred into life. When the name of Betty Grable appeared on the sagging screen there were wolf whistles and applause. Images of showgirls in feathers and seamed stockings and men in tails and top hats flickered in the darkness, but Abel paid them no attention. In his mind, he was repeating the words of the samurai warrior - _Be determined and advance - _commiting the speech to memory and enfolding it into his heart.


	9. Chapter 9 From Sea To Shining Sea

Chapter Nine: From Sea To Shining Sea

After breakfast early Monday morning the recruits were mustered on the parade ground and issued with their orders. The urgency of war had curtailed the passing-out ceremonies. Where once there would have been a marching band, there was now a sole drummer boy, and the bleachers that were normally reserved for local officials and proud parents were empty.

The drill sergeant called each man forward, snapped a salute and gave him his destination and a sealed set of orders.

'Abbot, _USS Yorktown_. Ackroyd,_ USS Lexington_. Allan, _USS Grampus_. Alves, _USS Indianapolis_. Atherton, _USS Yorktown_. Baker, _USS PC-496_. Bennet, _USS SC-694_. Bloomberg, _USS Montgomery_. Brown, _USS Indianapolis_.'

Waiting for his own name to be called, Abel tried to figure the odds of his getting a posting in the Far East. By his reckoning he had about a fifty-fifty chance of being sent to one of the two main theaters of naval warfare: the North Atlantic, protecting the supply ships that acted as a lifeline to Europe, running mine-sweeping duties, and hunting German U-boats; or the Pacific Ocean, where the real fighting lay. That was where the war had begun and Abel was convinced that that was where it would end, and more than anything else he wanted to be a part of it.

With the drum beating insistently under the litany of the ships' names, Abel felt a tingling sensation under his scalp as he was swept up by the noblest of emotions – patriotism. In his mind's eye he pictured amber waves of grain, purple mountain ridges, wide rolling plains, alabaster cities rising out of the conquered wilderness - the whole rich tapestry of the greatest country on the earth girdled on both sides by shining seas. Having spent his seventeen years on Amity Island, the images that colored his imagination were taken from magazines and picture books: the faded stack of _National Geographic_s that occupied one half of his parents' single bookshelf, black and white photos of Yosemite and the High Sierra, a picture called _Spring Turning_ that hung on the wall of Amity's Town Hall.

Abel's reverie was shattered by the sound of his name being called.

'Quint!' The sergeant levelled his gun barrel stare directly into Abel's eyes. The recruit next in line hissed an urgent prompt, and Abel stepped forward and marched to the front. He executed a sharp salute, which was returned with an equal measure of precision and tension.

'What's the matter, sailor?' The sergeant spoke under his breath. 'Ain't you ready to fight?'

'I'm ready, sir.'

For an infintessimal moment, Abel thought that one corner of the drill sergeant's mouth had turned up in a half-smile.

'Quint, U.S Repair Base, San Diego.'

The sergeant extended a horny hand in which he held the sealed orders. Abel was transfixed by the white document. It trembled like a blade aimed at his heart.

'Sir,' he stammered, 'there must be some mistake. I -'

'Fall in, sailor.'

Abel recognised the command in the voice and he knew that he was helpless against it. He had been trained to obey. He accepted his orders, saluted and marched back to his position.

The roll call of names and ships continued. Abel remained at attention. The orders seemed to burn a hole in his tunic pocket. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and his eyes stung.

Finally, after an eternity, the last name was called and the recruits were dismissed. They gathered in knots on the parade ground, seeking out those who shared their fate and with whom they would sail into battle. Amidst the crowd, Abel stood alone.

At the first opportunity he went to the camp commander and tried to get his orders rescinded.

'Now, sailor, I understand your disappointment.' The commander sat behind his desk, which was bare apart from an empty in-tray and a framed photograph of a woman in a white gown. 'War is not just about combat. The work they're doing out there in San Diego is vital to the war effort. Now, I can see from your record here, that you know boats. The sergeant says there's no one who can strip down an engine like you. Those skills need to be put to work where they can do the most good. All your buddies there, going out onto the seas, they're going to depend on fellahs like you to keep them afloat.'

'But, sir ...' Abel let his cracked voice trail off into silence. He was afraid that his emotions would betray him.

The commander handed him back his orders.

Abel returned to his quarters and began to pack. Most of the company had already shipped out. Abel sat on his bunk and put his head in his hands, listening to the sounds of the departing trucks.


	10. Chapter 10 Request Denied

Chapter Ten: Request Denied

The San Diego Naval Base sprawled over more than a thousand acres of land and water, its thirteen piers providing anchorage for ships that were either scheduled for repair or decommission. Alongside the vessels - destroyers, freighters, submarines, amphibious landing craft and MTBs - riding at anchor in the bay were a number of structures that looked like castle battlements – these were the floating dry docks that were regularly shipped out to naval bases and played an essential part in the war effort.

The work never ceased and was done in shifts under the bright Californian sun by day and under huge fizzing arc lights by night. The sound of labour – the ring of hammers on metal, the whine of drills, the crackle and splutter of blow torches, and the calls of the stevedores – only fell silent when there were rumours of a Japanese raid, and the powerful lamps were shut down. In the early months of the war the possibility of enemy aerial attacks had been treated seriously, and the sighting of a Japanese submarine off the coast of Santa Barbara had caused a brief panic.

The base was home to over twenty thousand navy personnel – five thousand more than the entire population of Amity Island. Abel would have preferred to remain anonymous and keep to himself, just as he had in New York City, but it wasn't easy. He soon gained a reputation as a fixer - someone who could start an engine even if it had a bent housing and scored injectors – and when the brass recognised his skills, he was taken off his work gang and farmed out wherever he was needed. He became a familiar sight striding through the docks with his toolbag slung over his shoulder and his cap pulled down over his eyes. Although he met with some resistance and even outright hostility at first – 'Hey, kid, your momma know where you are?' 'Watch out you don't strain yourself, kid, lifting one of them hammers.' 'Your momma need a lube job, son?' – Abel never rose to the bait. Pretty soon he had won the grudging respect of even the most hard-bitten old timers. His name became synonymous with difficult jobs. After struggling with a piece of stubborn machinery in the engine room for several hours, an exasperated chief engineer would remove his cap, wipe the grimy sweat from his forehead and admit defeat by saying, 'Looks like this is a job for Quint.' The name would ring around the docks, like the blow of a hammer on metal.

At the end of his fourth month, Abel put on his full dress uniform, marched over to the main administration block and put in a request to see the commanding officer. He was told to take a seat in the corridor and after half an hour's wait he was ushered into the room of a young lieutenant, who sat at a desk writing up a report. Abel came to attention and snapped a salute.

'At ease,' said the lietenant drily, not bothering to look up.

'Sir, I'd like to speak to the commanding officer.'

The pen stopped scratching across the paper. The lieutenant tilted his head and regarded Abel with an expression of mild amusement.

'Well, sailor, he's a busy man, as I'm sure you appreciate. Maybe I can help you?'

'I want to request a transfer, sir.'

'A transfer? To where?'

'Anywhere where there's combat, sir. It's been more than six months, sir, and I haven't seen any action.'

The lietenant gave a faint smile. He picked up the receiver of the black telephone on his desk and depressed a white button at the base.

'Mildred? Yes, could you bring me the file on Seaman - ' Here he cupped the mouthpiece with his hand and looked enquiringly at Abel.

'Quint, sir.'

'Quint,' the lieutenant said. 'Yes, it is a rather curious name, isn't it? Right away, if you please.'

The lieutenant replaced the receiver. He leant back in his chair and formed his long fingers into a steeple on which to rest his chin. There was a knock on the frosted glass pane of the door and a young woman came in with a manila file, which she placed on the desk. As she flashed a smile at the seated officer, Abel could have sworn that it was returned with a brief wink. The secretary closed the door softly behind her as she left and the lieutenant opened the file before him. He read it in silence for some minutes, his brow slightly furrowed.

'Amity Island?' he said. 'Is that Ventura County?'

'No, sir. It's on the East Coast. North Atlantic.'

'Hmm, that would explain the accent. I see you've made a bit of a name for yourself here. Three commendations.'

'Yes, sir.' Abel said proudly.

'Commendations for ship repairs. It would seem, sailor, that you are perfectly suited for your current job. Furthermore, you should think yourself lucky to have this posting. Sunshine all the year round, plenty of lonely beautiful women, and well out of harm's way. You should learn to appreciate these things like I do. There are plenty of men who'd be willing to change places with you, but, believe me, you wouldn't want to change places with them – not if you really knew what it was like.'

Abel struggled to hide his disdain for the man seated before him.

'Permission to speak sir.'

'Permission granted,' the lieutenant said languidly.

'Maybe I don't know what it's really like in battle. I guess no man does until he's in the thick of it, and maybe then he feels afraid. The way I see it, a man's got a right to feel afraid when he's looking death in the face. But if he's sitting behind a desk, just waiting it out, taking advantage of his situation, then maybe he should ask himself if that's the kind of man he wants to be. That's not the kind of man I want to be. Sir.'

The lieutenant felt the insolence in the final word. He unscrewed the top of his fountain men and wrote something in Abel's file.

'Request denied, sailor. You're dismissed.'

Abel came to attention, saluted and marched out of the room. As he closed the door he noticed the lieutenant's name written on the frosted glass: Lieutenant Archer. The irony was not lost on him.


End file.
